A Brief History of Vimes
by Lunar1
Summary: Vimes's cigar case has gained a rather unusual power after the events of Night Watch. The result? Vimes travels in time to meet some of his ancestors, notably Old Stoneface. Please read and review as it's my first Discworld fic and I LOVE feedback!
1. Chapter 1

Sam Vimes opened his eyes, took one look at the world, and screamed....

....and a few feet away the older, more cynical but perhaps most fundamentally most aching Sam Vimes opened his eyes. Being much more used to the world having had over forty years more experience he merely groaned. 

Yesterday had been a long day. For a start, it had been the equivalent of about a week for Sam Vimes senior, trapped thirty years in his own past. Sam junior had been being born, which sources suggest is one of the more tiring events of a person's life, although no one has ever actually said as much for obvious reasons. 

Vimes sat up. He was fairly used to being woken up at a ridiculous hour of the morning- normally by someone knocking at the door to breathlessly summon their commander. At least he didn't have to walk so far now, he thought as he swung his legs out of bed.

Sybil had got there first. As Vimes sat down gingerly on the corner of the bed little Sam threw up. How he managed to completely miss his mother and instead spray Vimes with vomit was one of those mysteries of life.

"Yuk," said Vimes, rather damply. Despite it being impossible for a newborn baby to display any emotion other than need, little Sam contrived to look smug. He stopped screaming as Sybil rocked him gently, asserting Vimes' place as reserve parent.

When he returned from his bathroom having washed away the stain (but curiously as Vimes was to learn to his disadvantage, not the smell) of baby sick, Sam was lying in his crib again. Vimes scowled slightly. His attempts to build one for his child himself had not been well received. Sybil had bought this particular crib a few weeks ago and his project was now in the wood shed.

Vimes sat down again. There was silence. And the Look. It was a Look that said 'I'm not saying anything until you start explaining.' Vimes sighed inwardly.

"So.. Er.. How are you feeling?" Vimes asked.

"Fine. What about you? What happened to your face?"

For one of the first times in his life Vimes cursed the fact he had married an observant woman. Mind you, Sybil would have to have been blind to miss the livid wound running across his eye.

He opted for the truth. "Someone took a slash at me with a knife." Well, it was the truth. Just avoiding certain details.

"Yesterday?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Then how come--" 

"--you really wouldn't believe me," Vimes cut in desperately.

"Try me," answered his wife.

"I'm not sure if I'm allowed..." he gave up in the face of oppressive Looking, and explained what he could.

"Is that why you were running around naked?" 

Vimes stared. How on earth did she find out these things? "Yes," he answered. eventually.

"Oh. Saving our lives. Again. Or so I gather," she said and smiled. In his crib Sam gurgled. "Here," said Sybil after a moment's pause. She scooped up their son and passed him wordlessly to her husband. After a few seconds of awkwardness Vimes managed to find a comfortable position in which to cradle his son. There was a lump in his throat which he swallowed to try and clear. He wasn't an emotional man but he would be the first to admit this was probably number one on his list of unexpected scenarios. Not once had the idea of children ever crossed his mind when he had married Lady Sybil. To be honest he had rather imagined he was... they were.... well, too old to... to have a baby.

Well, that theory was shot. The evidence was gurgling in his arms quite contentedly. For the first time he took a proper look at his son, with his copper's eyes, not the eyes of a relived new-parent. 

It would have been silly to say if Sam looked like either of his parents at the moment. He was the slightly bruised pink colour of all newborns everywhere, just as bald but perhaps slightly more spindly than most babies. He had bright blue eyes, but even Vimes knew that meant nothing, they could easily change colour in the coming months. 

"Are you proud?" asked Sybil, in a hushed voice. Vimes merely nodded, he didn't think he could trust his voice. He cleared his throat.

"I never thought... somehow, I always imagined I'd be the last Vimes."

"I know what you mean. I thought the Ramkin estate would go to my nephews."

"It belongs to him now," said Vimes, remembering the meeting with Mr. Morecombe however many years ago it had been. He sighed. "I have to go the palace this morning. A trial."

Lady Sybil looked at her hands. "I understand," she said.

"I'll be back," Vimes added hurriedly. He looked at his son again and added: "I promise."

  
  


Until recently Vimes had been of the opinion that the most useless thing in the world was a groom before his wedding. He was learning something new. There is nothing more useless in the world than a new father when the inevitable armies of female relatives descend. Vimes was, as many people had remarked, an inherently angry man who spent his days controlling the rage that built up behind the levees of his mind. He didn't relish the prospect of day after day of these women visiting; tutting him into a corner, occasionally throwing him an amused or shameful look. 

He sat glumly in his armchair as the conversation washed over him. It was the arch, braying laughter; generally at his expense, that annoyed him so much. It wasn't as if he was completely useless... he was getting quite good at changing nappies now after a few days of practise... it was the way they treated him like a non-entity, or like a small child not capable of understanding and carefully put back in his place with a sharp retort or sarcastic comment in reply to any attempt he made at communication.... and that damn laughter all the time biting into his brain....

It exploded around him now. There were some of Sybil's cousins, other women- ladies rather, some of whom he recognised but others he was sure he had never set eyes on before in his life. To hell with it, he'd had enough. He stood up. "I'm just going out for a while.. I won't be long." He couldn't meet Sybil's eyes, just nodded to the assembled multitude and slipped into the cool of the entrance hall. The laughter followed him as he strode outside and lit his cigar. He didn't dare smoke in the house any more. He stalked away down the street towards the Yard.

Sergeant Colon was dozing at his desk when he came in. Vimes blinked. In a few months he could be lighting the lamp over the door of the Treacle Mine Road Watch House... Old Fred Colon dozing at his desk... like so many memories it was almost romantic befuddled in the mists of time.... actually no. No amount of mist could ever make Fred Colon attractive in any way... but Vimes knew what he meant. The memory was linked to a time which he almost missed.

Vimes coughed loudly. When he turned around Colon was sitting bolt upright with an air of official helpfulness. "Din't know you were in today sir. How's Lady Sybil? And Sam?"

"Er, they're fine Fred. Really. I'm just... um, catching up on paper work..." he trailed off and wandered up to his office.

Carrot had set up his desk again next to the Commander's. Vimes surveyed the cleared piles almost with sorrow. It had taken him months to achieve such stacks. Now he had to start over. Ah well.

He picked up an armful of reports, stared out of the window for a while and then started walking home again. Thankfully, by the time he had let himself back in the visitors had gone. He sat down again in his armchair and read some reports. After a while there was, well, not exactly a noise. More sort of a reading on the Vimes-o-metre of someone nearby behaving suspiciously. He stood up, stretched and felt the tingle in his limbs. Something was up... he padded up the stairs. "Sybil?"

There was no answer. He pushed open the door of their bedroom. Sybil was asleep. He was certain of this because she was snoring gently. He wasn't as certain if she had meant to fall asleep as she was fully clothed and lying across most of the bed in the manner of someone who just flopped down and would be mildly surprised upon opening their eyes a few hours later to find the world had moved on without them. Despite himself Vimes smiled.

It was Sam who had drawn him away from his reports. He was awake, making those funny snuffling noises babies do when trying to decide if bawling is a viable option. Vimes looked down at him, picked him up and rocked him slightly. For once this appeared to have been the right thing to do. Sam smiled up at his father.

Vimes was nonplussed. He wasn't exactly an expert on babies, but he was vaguely aware that they weren't supposed to smile until they were a bit older. Sam was still only a few days old, and yet he was beaming up at his father his blue eyes shining. Vimes permitted himself a small amount of fatherly pride. "After all, you are my son," he muttered, offering him a finger to clutch.

Sam blew a bubble in reply, and wrapped his tiny fingers around his father's. Vimes would probably have been quite ashamed to admit it, but he did talk to Sam quite a lot. Not that ridiculous 'baby-talk' malarky that seemed to have affected everyone... for gods sake, even Angua had been fussing over him, talking rubbish when she had bought Cheery to visit. It was another sight Vimes would never have expected to witness. He had briefly wondered how it was going to affect his son mentally, having the sharp-toothed werewolf and bearded dwarf in eyeshadow cooing over him, talking nonsense. Sybil had been talking about making them godparents, something Vimes was decidedly uneasy about.

"Hey kid, at least it's going to be interesting growing up," he said. Sam appeared to consider this. Then he appeared to decide that he was fed up with smiling and was going to go back to the tried and tested entertainment of screaming his head off. He started to cry.

"Oh no," said Vimes, "Come on, don't wake up you mother. She's had a long day. She needs her sleep, you're only going to make things worse on yourself.... or possibly me."

Sam started to cry louder.

"Do you want your nappy changing? Is that it? Or are you hungry? Can't help you there, I'm afraid... Oh. Hello dear." Vimes handed over the baby, and Sam immediately stopped crying. Vimes tutted slightly. "He does that deliberately, I swear."

It was a fact that the four times Vimes had gotten up on his own to find out what was the matter with his son the only way to solve little Sam's problem, whatever it was, was to hand him over to Sybil, at which point he would stop crying and happily dribble everywhere.

Vimes sat down. "Are you alright, dear?" he asked.

Lady Sybil nodded, despite the dark circle under her eyes, synonymous with new-parenthood. "Yes, I think so. I'm just... a little fed up with all the visitors, that's all. I mean, it's not as if I'm completely stupid. They seem to think I need telling everything."

Vimes smiled grimly, "Yes, I had noticed. And the way they seem to think that either a: everything is completely my fault and I should be justly punished for inflicting such a burden on my wife or, b: I am a completely ignorant of every fact of child-raising and anything I say can be safely ignored. I mean... they seem to think that... that my presence here is of no relation to the child. Like men have no involvement in the whole process of... children."

Lady Sybil nodded a little uncertainly, suppressing the thought that if Vimes believed he had any more than a passing involvement in the whole process of childbirth he really was living on another planet.

"You're doing very well," she said after a while.

"Hhmm?"

"I said you're doing very well. That's the first time you've been to the office. And you came back within half an hour too."

Vimes frowned. "I've taken a fortnight's leave. I'm not wasting time there when I have a nursery to decorate." He coughed. The nursery was something he had very firmly stuck to his guns about decorating, having pointed out that Ramkin style had painted the rest of the house in shades of mild yellow, slight pink and nauseating green. He had as politely as possibly pointed out that his child having to sleep in a room like that was only going to happen over his dead body.

Vimes awoke with a cry and sat bolt upright in bed. He rubbed his head. What had he been dreaming about this time? Dragon's tonsils? Wolfgang? He couldn't remember, but whatever it was, it had been quite a nightmare. He was drenched in cold sweat and his half of the blankets were knotted around his legs. 

What he really needed more than anything was a dr- smoke. After a few moments of indecision he swung his legs out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown and after fishing his cigar case out of the pocket of his jacket he snuck down the stairs and opened the front door. He sat on the cold stone step and eased a cigar out of the case, lit it and took a deep drag. Ahh..

He looked at the cigar case in his hand. It glinted in the moonlight. He read the inscription: 

To Sam with love from your Sybil

He clicked it shut, and for a moment the world held its breath. Vimes sensed this sudden pause and started to stand up. Nothing happened for a moment and then-- 

  
  


"I told you as much Lu-Tze! That cigar case had got some sort of residual magic field in it from landing on that university! Look at the garden!"

Lu-Tze did indeed look at the garden. Every stone was moving, cracks were racing across it as if it was an icy lake someone had just shattered with a well aimed missile.

"He's travelled in time again?" said the old Sweeper.

"Yes!" replied Qu.

"When to?"

"I can't tell! This could take weeks of calculation!"

Lu-Tze sighed. "Can you give me an approximate date?" he said.

The panicking monk stared frantically at the garden in motion. "About... about three hundred years ago..."

"Righto," he replied and calmly walked inside the Temple. Qu followed him.

"Aren't you going to do something?" Qu asked.

"Yep," replied the Sweeper.

"I'll work out a possible date--" Qu began.

"Don't need to," replied the Sweeper, "I know where he's gone. He's an easy man to follow, his grace, once you know how his mind works..."


	2. Chapter 2

--Sam Vimes groaned. He felt like someone had hit him with a wall. He stood on shaky feet and tried to take stock. He was wearing his dressing gown and slippers, he had his cigar case and his badge which was always in his pocket. That was about it. Oh, no, he found some matches too.

He tried to work out where the hell he was. It didn't look familiar. In fact something which had been jumping up and down in his brain trying to get his attention finally got he recognition it deserved. It didn't smell familiar here. Vimes had spent almost all of his life in the Ankh-Morpork's city walls, and his nose was telling him in no uncertain terms that the stench of the river was missing. He fought down a wave of nausea. If anything it felt like he had travelled in time again, although he didn't remember the nausea being quite this bad last time.

Time to figure out where, or possibly when he was. He stepped out of the alley and into the streets.

He was definitely not in Ankh-Morpork anymore. The people on the streets were different. Better behaved, for one thing. They walked quickly, avoiding eye contact. And there were watchmen everywhere, on every street corner. At least, they were dressed in the way Vimes traditionally thought of as 'watchmen' but the thought began to creep over him that in fact they looked a lot more like soldiers.

The streets were cleaner too. The thin soles of his slippers sent messages to his brain from his feet. His feet told him he was standing on King's Way, but his eyes were telling him something quite different. His feet started to move of their own volition. If he had consciously though about it the most sensible place to go would have been the Treacle Mine Watch House, it stood more of a chance of existing than Pseudopolis Yard did. But his feet weren't listening and as he walked down the streets in a kind of daze.

He reached Pseudopolis Yard and his brain attempted to take control again. He was a long, long way from home. The opera house was gone, in fact most of the Yard was either missing or... different. But mostly it was Lower Broadway his eyes were drawn to. The long road leading to the Palace was hung with bunting, statues of men in the haughty imperious stance of most statues everywhere. There were even a few heraldic hippos dotted about. And it was lined with guardsmen. There had to be about fifty of them, the plumes in their helmets moving in the slight early morning breeze.

Vimes stared. There was a slight popping noise and a voice said in his ear: "Hello, Mister Vimes."

Vimes turned slowly. The wrinkled old man was leaning against his broom.

"You again," Vimes snarled, "Now wher-when the hell am I?"

"Why don't you take a guess Mister Vimes? You're an observant man, you're good at putting two and two together..."

Vimes growled but obediently took another look around. The city clean and well ordered, the bunting, the royal guards, the statues. The Palace, shining.

"I'm back in the days when we had a King."

"Well done! The last days, in fact. Today is the 3rd of Grune. It is eight o'clock in the morning. By tonight--" 

"--the streets will be on fire. I know. I read it in the history books."

"Do you know why you're here?" asked Lu-Tze.

"No. Can't you tell me that?" replied Vimes, frowning more deeply.

The Sweeper shrugged. "Who knows? Just remember it is important not to change history in any way, unless of course you were meant to change it, in which case it's imperative that you do."

"Can I have that again in Morporkian please?" said Vimes after a few seconds of stunned silence.

"Come with me, Mister Vimes. You're bound to get noticed dressed like that. We'll sort you out... I'll know more back at the Temple."

  
  


Thirty minutes later Sam Vimes was dressed in shirt and trousers, buckling on his sword belt. His badge and cigar case were nestling in the inside pocket of a waistcoat he was most uncomfortable about wearing, but shrugged on at Lu-Tze's insistence.

"Now, Mister Vimes. What're you going to do?"

"I'm going to.... I'm going to take a look around."

"Righto. I'll be in touch when we know more. Off you go then." Vimes was ushered out of a door and onto the streets. The door slammed behind him. Now. Where was he going to go?

He had to let his feet guide him, in the thin soled boots the Sweeper had provided him with. This Ankh-Morpork was different. For one thing, it was smaller. Nap Hill, Dolly Sisters, they were just farmsteads on the horizon. Even his feet got confused at times. Landmarks he had grown up knowing- they were all yet to be built.

He headed towards the Brass Bridge. Now here was something different. The Brass Bridge, complete with brass rivets and rails. A-mazing.

He strolled up towards Widdershins Broadway. The guards around seemed to ignore him. It gave him the curious feeling that he might be invisible. They stared directly ahead, unblinking. Vimes took a small malicious pleasure in sneezing suddenly and loudly, making a young man jump and blush with shame at his surprise.

In Vimes's yesterday the major guilds of Ankh-Morpork would by now be all around him. They didn't exist here. There were a few buildings, but mostly there was empty space and some more statues. He walked past the Post Office and stopped for a moment. The inscription above the door gleamed in the early morning light. 'Neither Rain Nor Snow Nor Glom Of Nit Can Slow These Meßengers About Their Duty.'

Vimes was pretending that he was letting his feet carry him but really he knew where he was heading. He had to see, that was all. He had to know. He had spent all his life believing in the fundamental, oh he didn't know the word, wrongness perhaps, of Kings. Now he was being given the opportunity to see for himself.

He was here. The front gates of the Palace.

Things had changed a lot here of course, the destruction of the Palace by the Dragon had resulted in numerous changes in Vimes's lifetime. The gardens were much larger and probably more organised, if a little more boring; this being before BS Johnson had got his hands on them. There was stained glass in all the windows, more bunting and the whole place had this ...aura. Of something special. Even Vimes could feel it and it made him angry. He took a step forward.

BAM. The smaller door set in the large gates slammed open and a man strode through and smashed straight into Vimes, knocking him to the floor.

"Sorry," said the stranger, extending his hand to help Vimes up from where he sprawled., "I didn't see you there."

"No harm done," replied Vimes, standing up and brushing off his clothes. The hand was offered again. Vimes took it and looked up into the face of the man who had sent him flying.

Both men's hands strayed instantly to their swords. "Who the hell are you?" said the stranger. Vimes was still staring at his face. It was like looking in the mirror.

Well... almost the mirror. The man's face was almost identical to Sam Vimes's. The same forehead, the same scowl. His ears were different, however, set a little higher on his head, a different shape. He was as skinny as Vimes, certainly, but perhaps he was a little shorter, it was hard to tell in his armour. He had a moustache too. It was scraggly, a moustache on a man not cut out to by nature to be a man with a moustache, but it was there. Vimes felt his eyes drawn to it like some sort of hirsute black-hole. Vimes had never worn a moustache. The best he had ever achieved was the sort of vaguely goatee shaped beard worn by men who can't be bothered to find the razor. These days he was normally fairly clean shaven.

"I'm-" he began and then the world drained of colour and a cheerful voice behind him said: "Ah, Mister Vimes. Thought you might like to know we've found out what you have to do while you're here."

Vimes rubbed his forehead. "Do you practise doing that? Or does it just come naturally?" he asked. The Sweeper grinned.

"You have to save his life," Lu-Tze said.

"Who's life?"

"His life," said the Sweeper, waving a skinny arm. Vimes looked again at the almost-identical face, moustache-framed mouth open in shock.

"When?"

"Um, tomorrow morning I think. After the fire, in the swamps."

"Oh," said Vimes. He thought about it. "Well, that can't be too hard. I mean, I just have to stay where he is, right?"

"Okay Mister Vimes. Good luck."

Time returned. Vimes fought down the momentary nausea. "My name's Sam Vimes," he said.

"Vimes?" said Old Stoneface, scowling even more. Vimes opened his mouth to say something else, but Vimes policy in dealing with things beyond comprehension in stressful circumstances had not changed a lot in three hundred years. The fist hit Sam Vimes square on the jaw. He staggered backwards, hit the floor and curled up in pain as a foot caught him a blow to the stomach. He had a blurred view of the cobbles and then there was nothing for quite a while.

Vimes woke up in a cell. He groaned loudly. Not again. He rubbed his chin. It felt like someone had broken his jaw. He tried opening his mouth a few times. Ouch.

"Where am I?" he said, thickly and then he remembered some more of the previous events leading up to waking up in a cell and sat bolt upright and added: "And what time is it?"

There was a guardsman lounging outside his cell. "Oh, you're awake. Mr. Vimes wants to see you. Now, he said."

This was stranger even than the last time he had woken up in a cell. Now it felt like he was a stranger in his own time, with a Vimes as head of an evidently large Watch. Vimes stood up and felt in his pockets. They'd taken his badge and his cigar case...

He stepped out and held out his hands. Not such luck, they were cuffed firmly behind his back. He moved in the direction pointed out by the young man with a careless wave of his arm. He had no idea where he was. This place didn't exist in his time. He guessed it was the original Watch quarters, long before the Treacle Mine Watch house had been destroyed, even longer before the Yard had been given to Vimes by Lady Ramkin.

He was pushed up some stairs and into an office, and he was sat on an uncomfortable chair. Looking out of the window Vimes tried to work out where the hell he was, but the city skyline yielded no clue, he had to use his feet in the city of the past.

Stoneface came in, and sat down opposite him. He stared. Vimes stared back. Both men shifted uncomfortably under the other's gaze. Each thought: He's good at this.

Stoneface Vimes won, albeit by slightly underhand methods. He put the badge and the cigar case own on the table with a per-link. Sam Vimes couldn't stop his momentary flicker of attention.

"Can you explain this?" Stoneface said, and he held up the badge.

"That's my badge," replied Vimes

Stoneface made a noise in between a cough and laugh. "Your badge? He pulled his own badge off his jacket and set it on the table next to Vimes's. They were completely the same. Badge 177 AMCW. "Can you explain?"

Vimes thought fast. Why couldn't the Sweeper turn up now? He could do with an extra millennia or two to think of an explanation. He sighed. He was an honest man. And when dealing with policemen honesty was generally the best policy. Besides, he didn't have the imagination to lie.

"I'm your great-great-great grandson," he said, (1) "I travelled in time to get here."

Stoneface looked at him quizzically. "You expect me to believe that do you?

"Yes," Vimes replied. He leaned back. "I can prove it."

"How?"

Vimes waited for the world to fade to grey, waited for the chirpy voice, complete with broom and grin. None were forthcoming. Looks like you're on your own, he thought

"Your journal," he said at last, "I can quote your journal. I know what's going to happen. I can help-- "

Stoneface cut him off with a wave of his hand. "My journal proves nothing," he said, "It is not particularly well hidden. You could have read it recently and memorised it. Tell me then, what's going to happen?"

"Tonight you'll walk out of here and take most of your men with you. All except the Palace Guard. Then, you'll rally support in the streets. There'll be hand to hand fighting. They'll set the place alight, both sides. The King will flee. There'll be a battle in the marshes. And then you'll... execute him," Vimes finished.

There was silence. "That's not enough," said Stoneface after a few more moments of quiet.

"What do you want to know and I'll tell you!" 

"Why am I going to walk out?"

"A new tax on... shoelaces I believe," said Vimes

"You must think I'm a bloody fool. I don't know who you are but I'm damn sure I know where you've come from. Klatchian spies! Get him out of my sight." 

1. Wrong. But Vimes wasn't the sort of man to spend forever over a petty detail. He got his point across and moved on.


	3. Chapter 3

Vimes didn't grumble as he was dragged away despite the feeling of cold dread rising in his chest. There was the customary beating from his captors, who ignored Vimes's right not to fall down the steps to his cell. He lay uncomplaining on the floor of his cell, thinking. He was thinking about home where there was a nice warm bed. And his wife. And his son. He could taste blood in his mouth and his head was pounding.

After a while, to his disgust, he fell asleep. That was practically pensioner behaviour. But it had been a long time since he had last slept, and he was missing a lot of snooze time at home as it was anyway. He awoke with a jerk and sat upright. His throat seemed to have been glued together with paste but he unstuck his mouth and managed to ask what the time was. It was a different guard on the desk, and he seemed quite amiable. 

"Six thirty," he said.

So it had begun. Stoneface would be storming out of the palace about now. Heading out into the streets to rally support, not that much would be forthcoming. Then the city would go up in flames...

Vimes was bought out of his reverie by the jangling of keys. There was some terse words spoken outside his cell and then someone was unlocking him. Stoneface stood in front of him as he struggled to his feet, knees complaining.

"Gods, you look a mess. What happened to you?"

"Guess," replied Vimes. He stuck out his chin, "Is there something you want me for?"

"Don't be a clever bastard. I just had a meeting with his Majesty and his chief advisors. They advised a new tax. On shoelaces."

There was a strange kind of silence. 

"Get out on the streets. Rally your support," said Vimes.

"You're coming with me," said Stoneface.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere else," replied Vimes.

"I wasn't planning on letting you."

  
  


They strode out onto the streets. Stoneface tossed something at Vimes. "I think these belong to you."

Vimes caught the cigar case and the badge. A young man ran up to them. He glanced momentarily at Vimes and then spoke to his commander. "Your orders sir?"

"Get the men together. The time has come. Those who want to fight are to meet me at the the Dark Gate. Make sure they understand it's not compulsory." The young man nodded and hurried away. 

"Who's he?" asked Vimes.

"My second in command. His name's Moon. He's a good kid." There was a pause and then Stoneface continued. "So, you're a copper..."

This was obviously a prelude to more conversation. "Yes," replied Vimes, "I'm... His Grace, His Excellency, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes."

"You're a Duke?"

"Yes."

"And a Knight?"

"Yes."

"Were you born a du-"

"No! I was just Captain Vimes. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You command the watch then?"

"Yes."

There was a longer pause. "Do we win?" asked Stoneface.

"Er, you don't lose. I hope," answered Vimes. There was a pause. "Can I

ask you a question?" said Vimes.

"Ask," replied Stoneface.

"Er, I just have to know, you see. What with them calling me by the same nickname...what's your first name?"

Stoneface told him. There was another pause while Vimes thought about it. On the whole, he decided it was probably just as well the people back home didn't know.

They had reached the armoury. A few minutes later Sam Vimes strolled out fully equipped with helmet, badge, sword. He was ready to face whatever the day would bring. Or so he thought.

There weren't a lot of men at the gate when they arrived. In Vimes's time the city extended for at least another half a mile before the Desoil Gate was reached. In fact, he wasn't far from what in his own time he called home. Scoone Avenue didn't exist here yet as he knew it, but it was comforting in some way, to know it was close.

It was already starting to get dark and the few assembled were nervous, talking quietly. They waited a while, but few more were forthcoming. "Is this it?" said Stoneface to Moon.

"I think so," he replied with a sigh.

"Trouble!" shouted Vimes from where he was standing on watch at the end of what would in his day be King's Way.

There were men marching up the road. The light of street torches glinted on armour and weaponry. Plumes bobbed in the half-light.

"The Palace Guard," said Stoneface.

"Commander Vimes?" someone shouted.

"Yes?" said Stoneface as Vimes nearly bit through his tongue in an effort not to reply.

"You're accused of treason, sir. Please, come quietly. For the good of the city?" said the young man who was leading the party.

"You're Corporal Peavie aren't you?"

"Yes sir!" replied the young man. Vimes could see the sweat running down his face. This was starting to go bad, he could practically smell it. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. Moon met his eyes, his young face was a mask of terror.

I never imagined it would be like this, thought Vimes, I never thought it would be as disorganised. I thought he had a plan, but really he's just like me. He's just had enough and now he's sorting it out in the only way he knows how. This is just what I would have done.

"Then you'll understand that what I'm doing is for the good of the city," said Stoneface.

Corporal Peavie's expression changed. He no longer look scared; he looked like a man staring back from the slopes of Hell. "Please sir!" he said, pleading in his voice.

Stoneface shook his head. Vimes saw a tear run down the young man's face. He opened his mouth, Vimes saw his lips move to form the word.

"Ch-" Peavie said, and the crossbow quarrel hit him in the chest and he fell over backwards. There was a moment where everyone but Sam Vimes stared in horror, and then the Palace Guard charged. 

Vimes had known what was going to happen before the young man had even spoken on some deep level. The Beast (1) had tasted it in the air. His sword was already drawn as the first of the Palace Guard leapt forward. Vimes hated sword fighting. He wasn't really all that good a fencer, he was much better at fighting with his hands. But the men here were all wearing as much armour as he was, the only real way to hurt them was to kill them outright.

Vimes let the Beast take over. Thinking in the melee would only get him killed. He let his instinct do the work. He tried where possible to disarm rather than kill, and to defend his comrades rather than attack. It seemed to work. Sweat stung his eyes and all he could hear was his own breathing rasping in his ears but suddenly:

"Retreat! Retreat!" The Palace Guard that were still standing began to run away up the alley. A few arrows followed them. 

"Stop it!" shouted Vimes.

"We might need them later! Don't shoot!" shouted Stoneface at the same time.

They looked at each other. "You can fight," said Stoneface.

"You sound shocked," responded Vimes.

"I had hoped that perhaps in the future things would be different..."

"In my experience, Commander," said Vimes, "People are people wherever and when ever you go. Don't worry about it." He patted the man on the shoulder.

"Who've we lost?" said Stoneface, turning to a pale faced Moon.

Vimes wandered away and stopped listening. He was trying to think through the fog in his brain. What was going to happen next? He sniffed. The air smelt of smoke. There was a red glow in the air, and he was sure it wasn't the sunset. He drifted back over to Stoneface. Two men were standing in front of him. Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes had gone very quiet.

"You did what?" Stoneface said.

"W-we thought it was a good idea, sir. To stop the Palace Guard from getting back and taking in the city."

"Oh. Well in that case -" Stoneface half-turned away. Then he spun around and caught the first man a fierce upper cut on the jaw. It laid him clean out. The other man took one look at the Commander's face, turned and ran. Stoneface Vimes inspected his knuckles.

"They set fire to the city, didn't they?" said Sam Vimes. Stoneface nodded. "So did the Palace Guard."

"We have to get out of here!" said Moon. The red glow was getting quite intense now, and the crackle of burning timber could be heard.

"It won't take hold, sir," someone said. 

"The city is too damp. The Ankh's been high all spring."

"Let's go," said Stoneface.

Moon made a face. "Go where, sir?" he asked.

"Out of the city. I think I know what's going to happen next." Stoneface looked at Vimes.

"He'll head for Sto Lat. The Hubwards gate. It's the closest to the palace," Vimes said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Come on. We have to move quickly," said Stoneface.

  
  


The King's coach was not particularly fast moving at the best of times. What remained of the Palace Guard was walking alongside it as it headed steadily towards Sto Lat. 

Prince Rupert was not as stupid as his father. Lorenzo was a particularly unpopular King and Rupert had been working hard to try an obtain a likeable image. He had trained as a soldier to show willing. Occasionally he talked to the common people. Well, the middle classes at any rate. He was walking outside the coach with the Captain of the Palace guard, Captain Hancox. 

"They'll ambush us the pace we're going," said the Prince.

"I know," replied Hancox, "But unless his majesty can be persuaded to move a little faster..."

"I'll try to convince him," said Prince Rupert, making a face.

Vimes was running again, his worn boots smacking down on the oozing mud. He had ben running for nearly half an hour in this stuff. It had started to rain quite heavily and the clinging black muck seemed unwilling to relinquish its sucking hold on Vimes's feet. He ran on, ankles complaining as he slipped and slid over the cabbage fields, knees sending sharp stabbing pains up his legs. His trousers were soaked through and his traditional watchman's cape he had borrowed flew out behind him like some super villain's in a bad moving picture. Breath came in short-sharp bursts through tortured lungs and he realised the irregular wheezing sound he had been glancing about for the source of for the past five minutes was actually him.

Suddenly, they came to a stop. Vimes wheezed, hands on his aching knees. He saw through eyes brimming with tears of exhaustion the blurred lights dancing ahead.

"How many men do we have?" asked Stoneface.

"Thirty or so sir," Moon replied.

"And how many Palace Guard?"

"Um, about fifty or so, sir."

The word bugger flickered into collective consciousness.

"We can ambush them," someone offered.

"No," replied Stoneface, "That's not the way we do things, We're Policemen. Men of the City. We have to do things by the book."

Vimes was impressed. The men spread along the road in an effective block, five people deep. "Keep your swords drawn!" Vimes barked as the men's stood grim faced in the gloom.

The coach was heard long before it was seen in the darkness. The jingle of the horse's harness seemed a curiously jolly noise for such a serious scenario. The ball of flickering light moved steadily closer, accompanied by the sound of tramping feet.

"Do you smoke?" enquired Vimes as the coach drew nearer.

"Yes." Vimes offered the man a cigar, and he took it with trembling hands. He lit it and they stood side by side, the glow of the cigars illuminating two very similar noses.

"You got kids?" That was Stoneface.

"Me? N-" Vimes caught himself in time, "Yes. A son." He felt a curious surge of pride as he said it. How strange.

"Me too. I hope-" 

"Is that you Vimes?" said a voice from the darkness ahead.

A match flared, lost and alone in the darkness. The glow reflected off armour, armour that seemed to shine with a light of its own long after the flame died away. Vimes stared. The man standing in front of them was Carrot. The same height, the same amiable face. This man looked a little older, perhaps but- 

"Yes . It's me," said Stoneface.

"This is treason, you know," said the taller man.

Stoneface was about to reply but he was cut off by the arrival of the coach. It shuddered to a halt and Vimes felt the air crystallising around him. He wondered what the time was. Was it tomorrow morning yet?

With startlingly sudden movement Stoneface Vimes swung himself onto the runner of the coach. It was huge, a whole cast of actors could happily have performed on the wooden platform that served as a step down, but was in fact more like a stage.

"Your majesty I'm arresting you for treason," said Stoneface quietly, but in the silence he might as well have been shouting. "There may be other charges as well."

"Commander! Have you taken leave of your senses?" snapped not-Carrot.

"Shut up Rupert," said a voice from the dark recesses of the coach. It was a deeply unpleasant voice, the kind of voice Vimes always imagined the upper-classes possessing. There was movement and then a man stepped onto the runner next to the Commander.

He was quite tall, taller than both the Vimeses (2) anyway, but he was unpleasantly fat all the same. He had quite a weak chin almost hidden by a thick white beard... in fact to Vimes's eyes he looked like the Hogfather gone bad. A sort of evil Fat Man. He was wearing a crown on the remnants of his greasy hair. With a small amount of shock Vimes realised this was King Lorenzo. Even he had to admit somewhat ashamedly he had been expecting someone slightly more... kingly.

"Well?" he said, looking at the Commander through piggy eyes.

"I said there may be other charges as well, sire." It was barely more than a whisper. Vimes could see how much this was costing Stoneface. He swallowed nervously.

"And if I won't come?"

"That would be resisting arrest, sire," Stoneface said.

"This is madness Vimes!" snapped Prince Rupert.

"Shut up!" snapped the Commander, shaking a finger under the Prince's nose.

"How dare you!" roared the King, "How dare you speak to him like that! Guards!"

The future became a series of flickering images for Sam Vimes. He saw a guardsman raise a crossbow, squinting to take aim. Sam Vimes swung himself onto the runners. The King dived back inside the coach as Vimes pushed his ancestor roughly off the side of the vehicle. Then he moved to throw himself flat. He was not quite fast enough.

The arrow hit him in the left shoulder. He was wearing light chain mail which he would later admit, was some help. It meant the arrow didn't pass through his shoulder at any rate. However, at such close range even chain mail wasn't capable of absorbing all the force of the projectile. The links were driven into the flesh of his shoulder, right underneath the collarbone, along with the tip of the arrow head.

The force of the impact knocked Vimes backwards and he fell on the wooden runners. The coach started moving quickly as the driver spurred the horses from standing start to gallop. The lurch sent Vimes sliding along the boards but he grabbed a door handle with his good arm and hung on for grim life as the coach began to pick up speed. The watchman were fighting the palace guard, a few tried to pursue the coach but through a haze of pain Vimes could see them falling behind. 

He pulled himself into a sitting position. Blood dripped from his shoulder and he felt dizzy, sick with pain. The rain was really hammering down now, it washed away the blood almost as soon as it fell. What to do... well, firstly he could with getting the arrow out of his arm, but unless the coach stopped moving letting go of the door was not an option.

He stood up and threw the door open. The King was flat against the far wall of the coach, goggling at the horrific silhouette that stood in the doorway. The foul weather howling behind him, and with the arrow still sticking out from his shoulder, the figure slammed the door shut and growled. Light from a swaying lantern briefly illuminated its face.

"Vimes?" said the King.

"Too bloody right," said Vimes. It was no good, the arrow was going to have to come out. The pain was intense. Steadying himself against the door he reached up with his good hand and pulled.

"Argh!" Vimes screamed as he wrenched the arrow head from his shoulder, pulling with it the broken links of chain mail. The King stared at him in horror. Vimes waved the arrow vaguely.

"Tell the driver to stop the coach."

The King regained some composure. "Why should I do that, pray?" he managed, but it was barely more than a whisper. His piggy eyes were practically rolling in their sockets searching for a way out.

Vimes screamed in pain and rage. He dreaded to think how much blood he was using from the wound in his shoulder. The Beast was threatening to break out and punch someone until he could raise a fist no more... He drew his sword.

"Do it now," he hissed.

"I-I.." stuttered the King.

Vimes sprang forward and grabbed him by the throat. "Stop the coach!" he growled.

The King choked. His face turned from a ruddy colour to a blue veined purple. With great effort Vimes let go. The King gasped like a fish out of water, and then knocked a complicated tune into the wooden wall. They lurched to a halt.

"Get out," said Vimes, breathing heavily and now feeling decidedly lightheaded. The King stood, his eyes fixed on the sword. It was held quite steady despite the trembling in Vimes's limbs. He nodded as if in answer to some question and then stepped out into the foul weather. Vimes followed him.

"Walk!" he barked.

"Look, Vimes. This isn't going to--"

"Shut up! Walk!" Vimes's legs were shaking. The pain in his arm seemed to be taking over his chest. His eyesight was failing, a gust of wind sent him to his knees.

"Vimes?" said the King, turning to see the bleeding man collapse on the mud.

"Sire?" said Stoneface, stepping out of the darkness with his sword drawn, blood on his face.

"But... but..." said the King, pointing to where Vimes was now almost flat out on the mud. With the last of his failing vision he saw Stoneface handcuff the King, the unpleasant face displaying his obvious confusion. Then he passed out somewhat gratefully and lay still on the mud as the rain splattered around him.

1. For those who haven't read Night Watch yet, this is Vimes's name for the angry part of his personality... which is most of it... I think he means the really angry part of him. Like when he fell out of the tree in the Fifth Elephant and lost control. 

2. Okay, I admit it. What the hell is the plural for Vimes? Vimeses seems to fit. 


	4. Chapter 4

Vimes awoke. He was lying on his back on something soft yet curiously prickly. There was light. He could feel it on his face and see it through his eyelids.

He risked opening one eye. This did not help much in his assessment of the current situation. He could see blue sky, the sun almost blindingly bright. The air was hot. He sniffed. He could smell straw or hay. Something grassy anyway.

He sat up and gasped in pain. His shoulder felt like it was on fire, full of a dull throbbing pain that seemed to bite into his bones, spreading across his chest whenever he inhaled. He was sitting on the back of a cart which was heading slowly along a dirt track. It was obviously an early summer's day, he could see birds swooping across the fields of cabbages he was gradually heading away from .

He was still in his uniform, which was a bit of welcome news; he was fed up of waking improperly dressed in all manner of situations. Parts of his body, realising he was back in to take calls, began ringing up to complain. He groaned, but at least the pain still mean he had both his legs even if they weren't in a fit state to do much.

He started pulling off his breastplate and mail to get a better look at his shoulder. After much wincing and biting his lip until it bled he managed to get it off so he could see the wound. It was a mess, black with bruising and dried blood. There was a series of semi-circular gashes around a central... hole... in his shoulder. He could still move his fingers, but even that hurt enough to bring tears to his eyes. He swore under his breath. His number one priority was to get to a doctor, or so it would seem. 

There was a popping noise and he sighed, and waited. 

"Hello Mister Vimes," said the Sweeper behind him.

"Hello Lu-Tze. I thought I'd be home now. I did what I had to do didn't I?"

"Ooo, that looks nasty," said the skinny priest, looking at Vimes's shoulder, ignoring his questioning for now. He prodded at the wound, making Vimes yelp.

"Can you help me or not?" he said, through gritted teeth.

"Yes," replied the Sweeper. "You'll have to come with me."

Vimes met the man's eyes. Frankly, at this moment he didn't trust his legs to take him anywhere. He was dizzy, felt sick and every muscle in his body ached. He was bruised and battered from a beating administered (at least according to Vimes's internal chronometer) less than twelve hours ago. He'd lost too much blood and had a nasty wound in his shoulder. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten. But he wouldn't be Sam Vimes if he didn't at least try. He took a deep breath and stood. Muscles screamed in his legs but he managed a few tottering steps before stumbling. The Sweeper caught him on the arm and held him steady.

"I've lost a lot of blood," Vimes offered.

"I should say," replied the Sweeper, taking in the pale clamminess of the man's arm he held and grey face.

"Where am I now?" asked Vimes as they walked slowly down the dirt track. 

"Oh, Ankh-Morpork, Mister Vimes."

Vimes staggered again and coughed violently before throwing up. Lu-Tze waited a few moments. "Better now?" he asked.

"A little," lied Vimes.

Lu-Tze sighed. He was not an unkind man and he could see how much this was costing Sam Vimes. He helped him back up to his feet. "Do you want to know when you are?" he asked.

"Aren't I home?" said Vimes, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

"I'm afraid not," said the Sweeper, "There was...a complication."

"What kind of complication?" 

"Weeell, it's a little difficult to explain.. I'm not sure if now is the right mome-" 

"What kind of complication?" repeated Vimes and the Sweeper sighed.

"You are directing yourself through time, Mister Vimes. Because... well, Qu thinks that your cigar case picked up some residual magic from landing on the HEM building," he looked at Vimes blank expression and pressed on, "We all thought you'd go straight back too, but it seems there are some things you need to settle first. Certain events that you want to change. So you've bought yourself here rather than home."

"But I want to go home," said Vimes, truth ringing on every word.

"I know that, Mister Vimes, but there must be something else you want to do first, or have to do..."

"What does that mean?!" Vimes said, running fingers through his hair in exasperation. The Sweeper paused, unsure of what to say next. He recognised the look of a man hanging onto his sanity by his teeth and Sam Vimes had that look now.

"It means that we're not sure if you're here just because you want to be, or if it's part of some higher order design. Do you understand? We need your help to find that out."

Vimes shook his head sadly. "Alright," he whispered, "What do I need to do now in order to get back?"

"We don't know Mister Vimes. Today is the third of August. Can you think of anything important that happened in your life on that date."

Vimes shook his head in genuine puzzlement. "Not that I can think of..."

"Well, we'll know more at the Temple," said the Sweeper, "I guess-" He stopped at the look on Vimes's face. "What?"

"The third of August, did you say?" said Vimes. His face had gone from grey to a murky white. The Sweeper nodded.

"Oh gods," murmured Vimes, "Oh gods."

"What?" repeated the Sweeper, but it was delivered to Vimes's rapidly disappearing back as he ran along the track into the city.

Vimes ran on not caring whether the man in saffron would catch up or not. Not particularly fast, it has to be said, as his legs were operating on energy borrowed straight from the quiet desperation that had taken hold of his heart and he could only use one arm. But he kept going all the way to the city gates and beyond, ignoring his body's desperate pleas to stop and carrying on even when his left knee started to give way on every alternative stride.

He ran up Short Street, his heart jumping in his throat. There were all sorts of people on the streets at this time of day, even in the hot summer sun. Ahead he could see the procession of people coming down out of the Street of Small Gods, walking from the Temples. It was some sort of Holy Day today, Vimes knew. There were women, children, old men. All heading to or from the Temples, all walking slowly steadily, packed in and unable get away, unable to move against the tides of other people. No one paid Sam Vimes any attention as he wheezed his way along, barely moving faster than a walk now, hardly able to see thorough the tears in his eyes.

There were screams ahead, and people tried to move out of the way, a channel was forming all the way up the street allowing Vimes to see all the way up to the Broken Drum. Well, almost all the way, Unfortunately a huge cart was charging down the street, blocking the view. The people couldn't get away fast enough, there were too many in too small a space. 

Later Vimes would learn that the cart was heading away from the diamond merchants, that the men were later arrested and charged. Later there would be talk of medals and honours, even though nothing would be forthcoming. But really the act of one man would save few lives at the cost of his own.

Thomas Vimes was an honest copper, if not renowned for being particularly bright. He was a good man, and he knew that somewhere in the crowd were families very much like his own, families he couldn't stand by and watch be torn apart. That was why he stepped into the street, fingers closed around his badge and shouted to the driver of the cart. "Stop! In the name of the Law!"

Vimes made one last desperate effort to reach his father, but the tides of people prevented him from getting any closer. He had a clear view as the man on the cart levelled his crossbow and let fly with the quarrel. It hit Thomas Vimes in the chest. He looked down at it, seeming more surprised than hurt, but Vimes saw the blood welling up from his chest seep out from his mouth as he shouted again with his dying breath, "STOP!"

Afterwards Sam Vimes would wonder why he had to watch, why he didn't just close his eyes and turn away. But he did watch as the cart smashed headlong into his father, crushing him beneath the wheels. There wasn't all that much of a body left when it was eventually rolled away. At least the shattered remains of Thomas's body had stopped the cart in its tracks, as one of his femurs had locked the wheel. There was no reason at all why Sam Vimes had to stay and watch as the people who hadn't fled tried to move the cart off the body, no reason why he had to watch them scrape up the remains with a bloody shovel, for gods sake. But he did watch. He sat in a doorway and watched it all, chin on his hands not saying anything; hardly even remembering to breathe. 

He was watching them draw the most misshapen chalk outline in the history of mankind when the Sweeper caught up with him again. Lu-Tze sat on the step next to the watchman. Vimes's face was blank as a slate, no flicker of emotion displaying the inner turmoil.

"Mister Vimes?" ventured the Sweeper.

"He was so damn stupid! One life to save how many? Ten? Five?"

"I know Mister Vimes. But he believed those lives were worth it. Come away now. That arm needs seeing to."

Vimes looked up with violence in his eyes, but it faded gradually and he nodded. He stood up and felt the sickening black dizziness rise up and claim his sight. He stumbled, fell and blacked out. Lu-Tze sighed heavily. "I could get fed up of this you know," he warned the unconscious man.


	5. Chapter 5

When Vimes awoke again the wound on his shoulder was dressed and smelt vaguely of herbs. Lu-Tze was sitting near, smoking a small cigarette; the smoke wreathed his head and hung in strange coils. "Hello again," said the Sweeper.

"Am I home?" asked Vimes, struggling to sit up, and managing only to raise himself onto his elbows.

"Nope."

Vimes swore. "Why the hell not?"

"I've told you Mister Vimes. This is your subconscious mind that's directing us. This where part of you wants to be."

"When am I?"

"It's the 16th of August, 1890."

"Oh," said Vimes, looking slightly happier. The Sweeper gave him a quizzical look. "That's my wedding anniversary," explained Vimes, mildly uncomfortable about discussing it, and feeling guilty about his own unease.

"What do you want to change?" prompted Lu-Tze.

"What? Oh, nothing. Nothing!"

"Well, what happens today then?" asked the Sweeper, completely mystified as to the cause of Vimes's sudden desperate cheerfulness and faraway expression.

"Er... I had the evening off. I went home earlyish. Um."

"I'll talk to Qu. I'll be back in a minute."

Vimes opened his mouth to stop him but couldn't find his voice in time. He contented himself with flexing his fingers, wincing at the pain and stiffness but also finding them a little easier to move than before.

Lu-Tze hurried back over. "So Mister Vimes. Have you figured out what it is you need to do?"

"Er... er.. No?"

"Well, what happened to you today? What did you do?"

"I told you! I had the evening off. I didn't do anything much."

"You just went home?"

"Yes! It was my wedding anniversary! I was organised this year. Flowers, jewellery... you know? I'd planned it a bit after I came back from Klatch..." Vimes trailed off into mute embarrassment. 

Lu-Tze was grinning now, happy in his role of duty torturer; Vimes could see it in his eyes. He knew that Vimes knew that he knew that- 

"So you went home?"

Vimes nodded.

"Celebrated your anniversary?"

Another nod.

"Didn't do anything much?"

Again, a nod.

"And the nine months and nine days later your son was born..."

Vimes felt his ears burning and looked away. He felt a momentary stab of anger at his own embarrassment. For gods sake, what was there to feel ashamed of? He looked back up at the Sweeper. "Well? I certainly don't need to encourage myself to do that! I'd planned it for weeks-"

"Yes, I understand. But... if Captain Carrot came knocking, before say, nine o'clock. Would you have gone?"

Vimes said nothing. In his now, in the time he had left behind and was desperately trying to get back to, he doubted he would. There was always another nappy to be changed, a baby to watch, or even simply some sleep to catch up on. Sybil had told him that someone had told her that a new baby would bring them closer together. It had; in the sense that they tended to flop down in the same room and sleep before the screaming would wake them (and then they would jump up together to find out what was wrong) but Vimes reckoned he actually spent less times talking to his wife now than before, as most of the time there were too many other things going on to chat- many of them involving vomit or other baby fluids.

But then? It depended how big a crime had been occurring. And the time. If it happened at dinner... the chance was probably fairly high. After that, no. Of that he was certain. However much the policeman in his soul would have objected it would have been overruled by the majority. Not even Sam Vimes itched to solve crimes that much. There were some things a man should not have to chose between.

He looked at Lu-Tze's face and sighed. "Go on then. What would I get called out for?"

"Know-Less-Than-Don't-Know Jack the Ripper."

Vimes frowned. "But that happened afterwards. The first victim was found at least two days after the-" he caught himself, "Tonight."

"Right," said the Sweeper, "What you say is true. But that's because the first intended victim was saved by one Commander Vimes as he happened to be passing."

"But I was at home with Sybil!"

"Yes," said Lu-Tze patiently, "You were. But you were also there. No one ever bothered to check on her statement in reference to the Ripper because it got filed under attempted robbery, not attempted murder. But if someone had looked at the times of the statement and the signature of the officer taking it, they would have found that somehow Commander Vimes was interviewing the suspect at the same time he was at home with his wife."

Vimes gave him a suspicious look. "How do you know all this stuff, Sweeper?" he said.

"'Cos I just went and read the report."

"I... I don't believe someone didn't notice. I can't believe I didn't notice. The report must have been on my desk..."

"There's your explanation then Mister Vimes," said the Sweeper cheerfully. Vimes nodded gloomily. It was true, the state of his desk the report could have sat there for weeks unread before being buried and quite possibly later burned by Fred Colon, or filed by Carrot.

"Where and when?" he asked.

  
  


Vimes walked slowly up Clay Lane under a darkening sky. It was not so much important that he wasn't seen, but it was imperative he was not seen by himself, or someone who knew where he was... gods this was strange. It was somehow worse to be less than a year in his own past. Young Sam had been thirty younger than him now, whereas the him in this time was the same as the Vimes standing in Clay Lane now, give or take a few scars. He saw a watchman heading down the street and dodged into a side alley. This was going to be more difficult than he imagined, not getting found out. He wondered how he'd managed it before when he was the Vimes that right now was walking home to see Lady Sybil... gods! This was a metaphysical maze! Perhaps if he thought of that Vimes as Sam and himself as Vimes. Yes, that seemed to work...

His errant feet were leading him places he didn't want to go again. He was heading to the Yard which was dangerous. He didn't want to bump into any watchmen. He turned around, headed back towards the Shades....

....and then the realisation washed over him as if he had been drenched in freezing cold water. He stood stock still; as still in fact as if he had just been soaked. He was going to have to fight off a dangerous madman whom, even the Agony Aunts had been forced to hand over the capture of to the Watch. He didn't even have a sword. He needed a weapon.

That meant one of two choices. He could head for the Watch House or he could go home and obtain his... equalisers. It wasn't as if he had any money to buy an more, and anyway the knuckledusters in the pocket of his coat at home were moulded to his hands now. They fit his fingers after years of use. His house seemed like the most sensible option, he could lurk in the grounds, sneak in through a side-door. There was no real way of getting into his office except through the front door, not with all the traps he'd set.

He set off at a run down the road, wondering what the time was.. He reached Scoone Avenue and; scattering gravel chippings everywhere, raced across the drive and into the grounds. he lurked behind a tree next to the ornamental lake, getting his breath back and counting windows. Two up, three along, that was his bedroom. How was he going to get up there? Climbing wasn't a good option, not with all the traps but if he.. Sam had already arrived home the front doors would be bolted and Wilkins would answer the tradesman's entrance, which could give rise to some awkward questions. That left breaking a window or sneaking in through the roof. The window wasn't really an option, not with the dragons in the house who'd kick up a fuss if he tried to smash his way in. Or worse Sybil or Wilkins would hear and come to investigate.

He swore under his breath, looked left, right, sprinted across the grounds rather stiffly, grabbed a drainpipe, tried to pull himself up, fell back, tried again and managed to pull himself onto a low roof, panting with the effort. Feeling like a fool he stood up. Here the brickwork was in good repair and he's sawed through the drainpipes. Even if he had had a rope, the slates had been redesigned to slide off the roof if hit with a grapnel. For all practical purposes he was, as Fred Colon might have put it, well and truly up the creek without a paddle. 

He scowled at the wall some more and noticed a thin tendril of ivy creeping up the brickwork. By the look of it, it might just snap and let him fall horribly to his death when he was halfway up the wall. He tugged at it. It seemed fairly secure.

He started to climb, his shoulder screaming in pain. He tried to ignore it, gritting his teeth and pulling himself onto the main roof. Now it was easy. He knew the only safe passage across the roof well because the sliding slates on greased rails required quite a lot of maintenance. There was a trapdoor, locked but old and rotten. It gave way under the force of his kick.

That was it. He was in. In the loft space at least. He strained his hearing in case someone had heard him smash the trapdoor. There was no sound from below. He moved silently across the dusty floor, taking care to tread in his old footprints. He eased the door open gently and slid out through the smallest gap possible as it squealed if opened more than six inches, he'd arranged it so by careful oiling of the hinges just in case someone by sheer luck ever did manage to get into the loft.

Now he was on the landing. He crept down the corridor and pushed open his bedroom door. His coat was hanging over the back of the chair. He hurried over to it, thrust his hands in its pockets and pulled out, well, all sorts of things. Keys, bits of string, slips of paper. A charcoal biscuit. Ah, here it was-- 

The sound of the front door opening made him jump in shock. He heard the jangle of keys and then his own voice. "Hello? Anyone home?"

Vimes sat on his haunches with his mouth open. Was that really his voice? It had been different so far back in the past- for a start it had been a lot higher. But this voice was older. More educated but still with a thick Morporkian twang, and much, much deeper. He heard another door click and then Sybil's voice. 

"Oh, hello. I wasn't expecting you back." There was a pause and then a gasp of surprise. "Oh Sam! You shouldn't have!"

In the bedroom Vimes froze. He'd hidden some presents under the bed, one of the few places in his house safe from swamp dragon damage. He heard footsteps on the stairs. He came to his senses and dived into the wardrobe, holding the door not quite shut behind him. He peered out through the gap.

The other Vimes came in. Vimes-in-the-wardrobe blinked. He'd never seen the back of his head like this before, good grief was he really that grey around the ears? The other Vimes turned and Vimes-in-the-wardrobe saw his face. He was smiling in that special Vimish way, with the scowl pretty much a permanent feature still in control of the top of his head but with his mouth turned upwards at the corners. The overall effect was quite painful. The man currently flailing both his arms under the bed needed a good shave too, the five o'clock shadow round his chin was a dark smudge. When he stood up Vimes-in-the-wardrobe could see the scars on his arms. Somehow they were much more noticeable from here than looking down on them. 

As he walked away back down the stairs Vimes noted the way he walked with some satisfaction. It was the walk of a man in control, the walk of a man who despite a skinny appearance obviously had a kind of muscular grace. It was a bit of a plodding walk as well though, he had to concede.

He slipped out of the wardrobe and removed the last knuckleduster from his pocket, and his notebook as an afterthought, and set off again. Ten minutes later he was standing on the gravel of the drive rubbing his shoulder with an expression of some pain. However, he set off at a trot towards the Shades again.

Even though Sam Vimes had grown up in the Shades he was generally a bit wary about going into them, even though no one in their right mind these days ever attacked a copper, let alone Commander of the Watch. All the same, Vimes still felt the tingle in his veins as he hurried down Elm Street and turned into the mess of winding alleyways that a tiny part of him would always call home.

It was very dark now and Vimes would have had to rely on his feet to guide him a lot of the time in the dingy alleyways of the Shades, if he hadn't have known his way through every twisting passageway by heart. As it was the soles of his feet were telling him he was right in the middle of Shamlegger street. He wondered what the time was and patted his pockets for a cigar.

The scream cut through the warm night air sending a chill shivering down Vimes's spine right into the small of his back. Up until that point the street had, to the practised eye, been quite busy. There had been a number of black robed men standing in various doorways thinking themselves unseen by the man walking as silently as a cat down the street and two or three ladies of negotiable affection who had been leaning against the brickwork which almost seemed to spill into the street in this part of town. Now they seemed to simply melt away into the blackness as the screams continued. Vimes's started to run.

The screams were coming from a small alley just off Shamlegger street, and they were abruptly cut off as Vimes got closer. Keeping his back to the wall he edged around the corner. Know-Less-Than-Don't-Know Jack had always been regarded as a bit of a psycho even by Ankh-Morpork standards. There are some minds that even criminals recognise as being a few palms short of an oasis., and Jack was considered trouble by some of the major street gangs. Normally the survival rate of known nutters was fairly small. The Watch tended not interfere with that sort of thing. For one thing, it made the job a lot easier. However uneasy Vimes felt about this he had to admit that trying to solve the problem was a bit like trying to empty a sea with a sieve, it just can't be done. But Jack had survived because up until now he never caused quite enough trouble to warrant their attention over someone else. Until tonight.

The seamstress had been gagged and Vimes could see the whites of her eyes shining in the darkness, along with the blade in Jack's hand. There was blood on her dress and dripping down her pale arm. Jack was grinning. She made a muffled noise as he pulled her to her feet, and nearly collapsed back to the ground on her trembling legs. It struck Vimes how small she was, she could only have been sixteen.

Something snapped. Vimes ran forward, his hand already reaching into his pocket. Jack spun and lashed out with his foot. Vimes caught it and pulled it upwards so the man fell heavily and landed on his back. He rolled over backwards and onto his feet and Vimes charged into him. 

They hit the cobbles hard and Vimes struck out with the brass knuckles. Jack responded by grabbing him around the throat an trying to headbutt him, but Vimes was a master at that particular party trick and managed to slam his metal fist into the man's stomach making him wheeze and let go of Vimes's neck. Vimes pinned both his arms to the cobbles and looked into the eyes of the man struggling to catch his breath.

Vimes had been to all of the Ripper crime scenes and had seen what Jack had done to the victims he had managed to get off the streets and into his rooms. It wasn't pleasant and as he stared into the eyes of the man panting on the cobbles it occurred to him what a favour he would be doing by cutting the bastard's throat here and now. All those women who would still be alive today, all that blood...

The outcome of Vimes's musings would never be known as Jack managed to get his knee up and Vimes's grip relaxed slightly as his eyes crossed. It was just enough for Jack to wriggle free and set off running down the alley. Vimes wasn't going anywhere fast at the moment but he made his way over to the bound girl, bent double and groaning slightly.

"Did he hurt you?" he managed as he removed her gag and untied her bonds.

"Oh, Commander Vimes! Thank you so much! I thought I was going to die!" The words came out in a rush.

"Are you alright, miss?" Vimes repeated. The blood was still running down her arm.

"I'll be fine sir," she said, "He just took a slash at my arm."

"Can you tell me exactly what happened?" he said, taking out his notebook.

Nearly half an hour later Vimes was climbing up the ivy to return his knuckledusters before his past self discovered them missing. He scrambled in through the loft and pushed open the door gently, more than a little worried that he might hear himself come in. 

He stepped out onto the landing and grinned suddenly in the dark. From the sound of things there was little need to worry about his past self hearing an intruder. He slid into his dressing room and shoved everything except a page from the notebook into the pocket of his coat. He paused for a moment at the door. If only he could tell himself, he mused, if only he could let himself know what the consequences of tonight were going to be... but he couldn't do that. Instead he headed back out into the night. The Sweeper was waiting for him when he reached the ground. Vimes waved the notebook page at him. 

"How am I going to get this on my desk?" he demanded.

"Leave it to me, Mister Vimes," replied Lu-Tze. Vimes handed the paper over and opened his mouth to speak but the world suddenly drained of colour once more, this time to darkness and he felt once again that curious sensation of movement. Then a pavement appeared in front of his blurred field of vision and it rose up to strike him in the face. He lay on the floor and decided to accept the majority vote for a while, and closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Vimes opened his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to fight down the nausea. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to work out where the hell he was. It looked a lot like home, but the windows were dark and the building looked in a similar state of repair to when he had first knocked on the door all those years ago. He stood up and looked around. The whole house had an overgrown look to it, the grounds were unkempt and the statuary was covered in ivy.

Something made him reluctant to knock on the door to be let in, he didn't know what. Instead he headed up the road towards Pseudopolis Yard. It was early in the morning, so early in the morning that the streets were quiet as a grave. He headed towards the Watch House in a kind of dream. He wondered when he was.

The door of the Yard was open and inside it was much the same as it had been when he had left. But there was dust on all the desks, the files were gone and empty cabinets hung open. He looked at the dust thick on the floor. There were footprints leading up the stairs to the offices. As if in a dream he followed them.

He pushed open the door of his office quietly. It was empty, stripped of all paperwork and as dusty as downstairs. He felt the panic rise and then something hit him in the back of the head. 

"Ow!" he said, turning up and around. There was no one there. He looked at what had been thrown at him, turning it over and over in his fingers. It was his badge, the same as the one in his pocket. He turned around again and walked over to his desk. There were fingerprints in the dust. He ran his fingers over the scored wooden table top. 

There was a noise behind him and he spun around again. This time there was a figure there, dressed in the traditional watchman's armour. Vimes swallowed. Once again he was looking at his own face, scowling back at him with an expression of something resembling hatred. There were of course, some differences. This Vimes's hair was thick, a shock of hazel brown that reminded Vimes of his own when he was about twenty, untameable in every sense of the word although thankfully normally contained in his helmet.

"You bastard!" growled the younger Vimes. Older Vimes wondered who the hell he was. It could be him, of course, back in his own past again but there was another subtle difference between his Vimes and himself, apart from the hair and the scars on his face -- 

The young man had launched himself at Vimes with a cry and the first of these differences became immediately apparent as Vimes ducked under his wild swing. This Vimes was quite a bit taller than he was; over six feet. As the younger man reacted instantly and grabbed Vimes around the throat, forcing him against the wall the second difference became apparent. This Vimes was broader too. Sam Vimes had always been on the skinny side, wiry rather than muscular, but this young man was built more like Carrot and Vimes choked as he throttled him in a vice like grip. He tried to pry his fingers from around his neck but failed miserably and resorted to kicking the man hard. His attacker was pushed backwards and they both fell to the floor and rolled instantly onto their feet, older Vimes wincing as his shoulder pulled.

"Who are you?" Vimes said, although his voice wasn't working particularly well after nearly having his voice box squeezed out through his ears and it came out as more of a rasp.

"Don't you recognise me?" said the younger man, mockingly. He held Vimes's scowl for a moment and then dropped his gaze and relaxed his fighting stance. "Hello, Dad," he said to the dusty floorboards in a tone of great bitterness.

Vimes felt the world slipping away. This man in front of him had to be at least twenty, meeting his gaze again with eyes full of violence. "Sam?" he said. It emerged as a whisper.

"Yeah. That's right," said Sam, "It's the Century of the Rat, Dad. I'm twenty-two. And you've been dead for twenty-two years today."

Vimes's eyes widened. "What?"

"Hasn't the Sweeper appeared yet to explain it all?" said Sam.

"How do you know about him?" asked Vimes.

"Because he turned up last week when I was on patrol! And he said you'd be turning up! He said I have to tell you everything..." There were tears running down the young man's face now. "Tell you all I've managed to find out.... about how you died..."

Vimes stared for a bit. It was all a little bit much to take in. "I'm dead?" he managed after a bit.

Sam nodded.

"What about Sybil?" Vimes said after another neuron gave a fizzle.

"Mom?" said Sam, looking surprised, "She's fine. She's at home."

Vimes started to move towards the door but Sam laid a hand on his arm. "Look Dad," he said, "I don't understand any of this either, but... look. You've been dead for over two decades. Mom hasn't been prepared by the Sweeper. What's she going to think when you walk in not a day older than when she last saw you demanding to know what's happening?"

Vimes nodded a little uncertainly. "Okay," he said.

"I'd imagine you want to take a walk," said Sam after a few moments of silence. "I know I would, it helps me think."

Vimes nodded again and they headed out of the Yard. "You're a watchman?" said Vimes after a few minutes of walking in silence.

"Yes," said Sam with something of a grimace.

"You don't want to be?"

"I wanted to be... I don't know, a writer or something. But... do you know what it's like? Every time I heard from Carrot or Angua about a case... I just wanted to get involved. It was either join or get arrested for trespassing. I guess that's genetics for you."

"Carrot and Angua are here?" asked Vimes

"Yes. They're married, by the way," said Sam smiling slightly, "I'm Jon-, sorry, their son's godfather."

Vimes permitted himself a small smile. Suddenly he turned to face his son, his face alight with a new emotion. "What can you tell me?"

Sam read this change in his father's face and smiled himself. "Look Dad. From what the Sweeper tells me, this should never have happened. You aren't meant to die when you do. He said something about 'auditors' and 'those little grey buggers' and a lot of other things I didn't understand. What I do understand is that I have to tell you everything about how you died, so that you can stop it."

Vimes sighed. "But there's so much I want to know! Please, Sam! Where did you go to school? Did you do well? Have you got a girlfriend?"

"Dad! You're worse than Mom!" he laughed, "No, I haven't got a girlfriend at the moment. No grand-kids, sorry to disappoint you Dad. I did well at school, I know you'll be glad to hear that."

"Okay," said Vimes, "Tell me what I need to know."

"Well, I don't know all that much, to be honest. They found your body with several others. It looked like you'd fallen off a roof, but there was an arrow wound in your shoulder. Your clothes were different, Mom said they weren't your own. No one was ever arrested, Angua found no scent and Cheery found no forensics. A dead end."

"Where was I found?"

"Treacle Mine Road."

Vimes nodded slowly as the information was processed. To distract himself from his deeply unpleasant thoughts he asked some more questions. "So, who taught you all that stuff, back there?" he asked, rubbing his still sore throat.

"Angua," said Sam, "She said she'd teach me everything you'd taught her, and then you'd be happy."

Vimes grinned again. "So who took command after I left?" he queried, as if he didn't know the answer.

"Carrot."

"And now..?"

"I'm a Captain," said Sam, "No one's really been appointed as commander yet..." There was something in the way the boy spoke that made Vimes suddenly suspicious.

"Whatever it is you don't want me to know, tell me," said Vimes.

Sam gave him a sideways look. "You wouldn't want to know it," he said.

"What happened to Vetinari?" 

"He retired."

"And who took over..?"

"I can't tell you!" said Sam in anguish.

Vimes started to walk faster up Lower Broadway, towards the Palace and then he broke into a run. His suspicion was more than just sneaking now, it was like knowledge that flowed in his veins. Carrot was King, he just knew it.... Sam took him down in a rugby tackle.

"Tell me that it's not like that!" shouted Vimes.

"Look Dad you don't understand. It was either take the throne or have chaos and fighting in the streets! He's a good man!"

"I know! But is his second in command-"

"Dad! I know too! Carrot remembers when you said that to him! The court is kept under control. The Watch is as it was, in your memory! Look, if you don't want this to happen then you have to go back and change it. Go back and stay well away from Treacle Mine! Don't die this time!"

"Sam... look after your mother," said Vimes, because the world was starting to dim again.

"I will Dad! I've managed it for over twenty years. Go on-- go back and change it. Make it so I don't have to exist in this..." The blackness swallowed Vimes and he heard no more.


	7. Chapter 7

When Vimes opened his eyes the world was completely drained of colour and silent as the grave. His breath steamed in the cold of the air and hung in motionless coils as soon as it left his lips. Something was wrong, terribly so. He felt it on some deep and primitive level, some base instinct was growling a warning. Vimes stood up carefully in case anything leapt out at him. The nausea was back, but at least projectile vomit could be considered a weapon. he crept along with his back against the wall.

What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go? Where was Lu-Tze when you needed him? It felt like time had stopped again, but the world was in short supply of little old men with cheery grins and brooms to tell him what he had to do. It was all very well saying 'do the job in front of you' but you had to know what the job was. Staying here wasn't going to help. he headed out into the streets.

There were people on the streets but they were as still as when history had come to claim seven lives in heroes Street and he found he couldn't quite look at the frozen people, drained of colour and somehow, of their humanity.

There was movement to his left and he started to run. He wondered briefly if that was the wrong thing to do, after all, it was what Sam Vimes always did so perhaps by not running he would avoid his own murder. But maybe that was what he'd though last time; maybe he had to run to survive... Vimes shook his head. if he started thinking like that he would never get anything done. He ran on.

The figure in orange robes was walking away from him. "Lu-Tze! Sweeper!" he called out. The orange-robed one turned and Vimes skidded to a halt. This was a young man, far too young to be the Sweeper.

"Did you call me Lu-Tze?" said the man.

"Yes, sorry. Do you know where he is?"

The young man looked him up and down. "Who are you?" he asked.

"Commander Vimes, Ankh-Morpork City Watch," replied Vimes helpfully.

"Oh yes, said the boy, "I remember now." He looked confused. "How are you...? You must be making your own time. I didn't think you had any anthropomorphic personification connections..."

"What?" said Vimes, completely lost.

There was a popping noise and Lu-Tze appeared. "Lobsang! How are you?"

"Fine, thank you Sweeper. It's good to see you again." They shook hands. Vimes coughed slightly.

"Ah, Mister Vimes. Glad you're here. You're just the sort of man we need."

"What's going on?" said Vimes.

"The Auditors are back, Lu-Tze," said Lobsang, "They've got some thugs with them, they're trying to..." He noticed Vimes was listening intently and stopped.

"Mister Vimes, it's going to take to long to explain why," said the Sweeper, "We don't have the time-"

"You don't have the time?" said Vimes, sardonically.

"Yes, Mister Vimes. We need to stop the Auditors," seeing the blank look he added, "The little buggers in the grey robes, your grace. They're after you."

"Me? What did I do?"

"Changed history, that's what. And now they know and, well, let's just say they preferred the other history, okay? The one where Stoneface didn't arrest the King... there'd be a lot less people about if it had."

"Okay, that seems to make some sort of sense. What do you want me to do?"

Lu-Tze paused trying to think how best it would be to phrase the true intention of the History Monks without causing Vimes to react in a ballistic way.

"We need you to bait the trap," said Lobsang and Lu-Tze groaned slightly.

"What!?" said Vimes.

"Look, Mister Vimes. Just go along with it, please? If you ever want to see your wife and child again..."

Vimes held his gaze angrily for a moment and then dropped it, knowing he had lost. There was nothing he could do to fight against what the Sweeper had just said. "Alright," he said quietly, "How can I be of assistance?"

"All you have to do is survive long enough for us to deal with all the ones in grey robes. They'll send their thugs after you first. For something supposedly without personality they can have quite a surprising desire to stay in existence." Seeing Vimes's slightly confused look he sighed and said, "When they chase you, just run. Don't fight unless you have to. Just keep out of the way as much as you can and let us get a clear shot."

"Okay," said Vimes. It was simple really. They chase, I flee. Just like the old days. I used to cover half the city in my youth... but I'm not that young any more. As the Sweeper and Lobsang started to walk away Vimes became aware of the running footsteps. As the rising panic began to take hold, as he wondered how the hell he was going to get out of this one alive the men rounded the corner and the cry went up. The hunt was on.

Vimes ran and in doing so freed himself of all the worries of survival. He dodged and swerved to avoid a few crossbow bolts, and he leapt over a garden fence, scrambled up a privy wall and onto a roof before clambering over another fence and running flat out again. he didn't look behind to see if they were still following, he just ran, trying to ignore the pain in his knees, ankles, shoulder, chest and throat. His heart hammered madly and he stumbled slightly as he struggled to get over another fence. A glance behind sent him speeding again, the men had not fallen behind.

Vimes didn't know where he was going, he followed the old routes he had learnt years ago. The ones where a tricky roof could send a man sprawling if he didn't climb up in exactly the right place, the ones where the fences were likely to catch and snag if you didn't jump over 'em at the one place where the barbed wire had fallen off. 

Despite his age and numerous wounds, healed breaks and scars Vimes was still a good runner over the long distances. It was a long time before any of the men caught up with him, and only then because his shoulder gave out on a particularly nasty roof to scramble up and over and he fell to the floor. As it was he managed to get on his feet before the first man reached him and punch him in the stomach. The man grunted and Vimes punched him in the face, bringing his knee up at the same time and pushing the man over backwards as he curled. A couple more blows to the head meant the man was unconscious. As much as Vimes hated it, it was a better alternative than letting the man back up. He pulled the knife out of the man's belt, the unconscious thug hadn't even had time to draw it.

It was probably just as well because as Vimes looked up the second man had arrived. Vimes reacted instantly and threw the knife. It wasn't as if he was good at that sort of thing because he wasn't, but at this range he didn't need to be. It hit the man in the stomach and he fell back with a cry. Vimes didn't hang around to wait for the third man. He set off running again.

He felt better now about running. The Beast was out looking to kill and his fear had evaporated. He didn't realise it for a while but he was taking the long and winding route back to Treacle Mine Road, the eventual finish line of whatever race he had run in his younger days. The realisation chilled him. That was where he was supposed to die...

It was too late to start thinking now, thinking was a surefire way to get himself killed. He had to let instinct do its work if he was going to survive and get back to Sybil and Sam. Sybil and Sam... that was what he had to preoccupy his conscious mind with, and how it would feel to be back home, in his nice warm bed, with his loving wife and his son... probably screaming his head off but nothing can ever be perfect... Home. He was going to get home. 

Here and there the flash of orange would catch his vision. At one point he turned to look behind and almost stopped to stare in shock and amazement. The boy, Lobsang, had his fingers outstretched and something complicated was happening to someone dressed in a grey robe, blue flickering light crackling in the freezing air.

"Just run Mister Vimes!" someone shouted and Vimes jerked himself back into reality and started sprinting again.

He reached the remains of the Watch House. As always, Vetinari was right. A lot of the old building was still there, and the place had solid walls, a flat topped roof...

There was someone on the roof now, a someone in orange robes who was waving frantically. "Up here!" it yelled, and a rope was flung down. Vimes grabbed it and started to climb, ignoring the biting pain in his arm. However, the someone on the roof was pulling the rope too, and Vimes soon rose and fell flat on the roof top. He wheezed for a bit before dragging himself upright. It was Lobsang who had pulled him up.

"I thought you were back there," said Vimes a little gruffly, "Thanks, by the way."

"Don't worry about it," dismissed the young man with a wave of his hand. He stared into the middle distance for a moment, swore and disappeared in a flash of blue light, along with his rope.

"Er?" said Vimes staring at where the man had been standing moments before. But there was no time for shock as below him the men who had chased him were amassing. Vimes peered over the edge of the rood and a crossbow bolt whiffled past his ear. He withdrew quickly and threw himself flat on the floor to be less of a target. The bolts stopped after a while and Vimes lay still. He crawled over to the edge of the roof and gazed down below. The men seemed to have run out of bolts and were discussing their next course of action in a huddle. A voice behind him made him roll off his stomach in shock and leap to his feet.

Well... not exactly a voice. More like words that appeared in his head without needing to travel via the ears. There were three figures in grey robes standing behind him. He had to assume there was something inside the robes, even though they appeared to be floating rather than standing and he could see right to the back of the grey hoods when most people tend to have a face between the air and the material. Despite this rather eerie fact the robes were not scary in the normal sense of the word. They were more, well, sort of boring.

The voice said: Are you Commander Vimes?

"No," replied Vimes, shaking his head and looking desperately left and right for an exit. "Sorry, never met the man in my life. Must dash..."

He is lying, said one robe.

Yes, replied another one, We must kill him now.

The third robe seemed to be in control. No, it said, We cannot. That would require... personality.

We should let the men do it for us, said the first.

Yes, said the second, I agree. Let us... Oh bugger! It disappeared.

It was replaced by another robe identical in every way. Let that be a lesson, said the new robe.

Vimes's search for an exit had not been successful. Another glance down at the men gave him more unwelcome news. Someone had got a washing line and they were tying it to a drainpipe and starting to climb up the walls. Vimes swallowed. He had a horrible feeling he knew how this was going to end, with him nothing more than a splat on the cobbles below. He was going to be as misshapen a chalk outline as his father...

On the other hand, this was what Lu-Tze had wanted, right? Lead them into a trap, and let the monks get a clear shot. If any of the Men in Saffron did turn up they certainly would have a clear shot.... What worried Vimes more was the fact the world was depressingly short on any monks to actually do any shooting.

The first man was making a desperate bid for the roof. Vimes stamped on his fingers as he scrabbled to gain a handhold on the roof and then kicked him in the head. He fell, knocking down several other men who were climbing up . Only two of them got back to their feet. 

"Ha! How'd you like that one boys!" he shouted down at the men. The robes were still hovering a few feet away. The first one spoke.

He has killed some of the men, it said.

This does not concern us. They were weak, replied the third.

But how are we to terminate this creature? argued the second, We agreed to let the men kill it.

They are unsuccessful, said the third one after a short pause, We shall have to do it for ourselves.

Vimes steeled himself for the first assault. Noting happened for a moment and then the robes seemed to lose shape, as if they were crumbling to dust. However, the dust was forming itself into a new shape. Dogs. They were turning themselves into dogs. As if Wolfgang hadn't been enough...

The nearest bared its teeth at Vimes and he tensed himself. It crouched, preparing to leap. Vimes edged away, right to the very end of the roof, his heels teetering on empty air. The dog growled uncertainly and then leapt, at exactly the same moment as Vimes threw himself flat. The dog sailed over his head and into empty air. A few moments later there was noise that sounded very much like splat. 

Vimes had no time to gloat, the other dog had already jumped on top of him. There was a horrible moment full of hair, teeth and blood and then he managed to roll with it underneath him and grab its muzzle. He slammed its head into the stone roof again and again. He thought he heard a crack and the body in his hands went limp. He rolled again, just as the third dog sprang and landed on his chest. 

This one seemed to have learnt from the mistakes of its comrades and it went straight for the throat. Vimes tried to hold its mouth away from his neck while it scratched at him and snapped. It was a losing battle and with no other option left Vimes kicked his legs over his head. He rolled over backwards. He had been hoping that now the dog would be held underneath the weight of his body and he could attempt the same trick that had resulted in the demise of the second Auditor. Unfortunately he hadn't been that far away from the edge of the building and had effectively just rolled into empty air.

The third dog fell, but Vimes still had one hand on the blessedly solid stone. It slipped but he managed to find a handhold and dangled for a moment by one arm. He tried not to look down but there was little other option. The rest of his life consisted of how long he could hold onto the roof of the building and his sweaty, not to mention bloody, fingers were already slipping.

Vimes's hand slipped and there was a terribly long moment where he seemed to hang in mid-air. He wondered if his life was going to flash before his eyes, contemplated how much of it there would be time to remember before he hit the ground and was nothing more than a chalk outline- 

-And a hand grabbed his wrist with a steel grip before he had moved more than a fraction of an inch and someone pulled him bodily to safety. All the breath Vimes had been holding came out in a rush and he looked into the face of his rescuer.

"Sam?" he said.

His son pulled a cigar case out of his pocket. Vimes's cigar case. "I don't smoke," he said, "But Mom gave this to me. When I opened it I travelled to exactly the place in time where I most wanted to go." There was a pause, and Sam met his father's gaze. "Piece of luck for you, eh?"

Vimes smiled, shaking his head but with a wondering look in his eyes. "Thank you," he said, with feeling. 

"Any time," said Sam and he held out a hand for Vimes to shake.

"Hey," said his father. There was a scar on the back of young Vimes's hand, but as they watched it was fading away to nothing. Sam examined his healed hand carefully. He waved it at his father.

"See? Already you've changed things. Who knows what I'll go back to now? It's all going to have changed!" Sam sounded quite excited at the prospect.

"Good," said Vimes, "That's good. And... now what happens?"

"I'm going to walk you home," said his son, "And then I'm going back where I belong."

They walked through the silent streets saying nothing until they reached Scoone Avenue. Lu-Tze was standing by the gates, leaning on his broom. Sam turned to his father. 

"I wish I'd had more time to talk to you," said Vimes, "I feel I've missed out."

"Don't worry Dad. You'll have plenty of time to talk in the coming years. You won't miss out. Not this time. And neither will I." He held out his hand again and Vimes moved as if to take it but at the last moment changed his mind and embraced his son instead. There was a brief moment where he could feel his boy hugging him back and then when he dropped his arms his son had disappeared.

"Ready to go home now, Mister Vimes?" said the Sweeper.

"What will happen to him?" asked Vimes.

"He won't remember anything when he returns to his own time-line. He will have lived the life he was supposed to."

"Oh." Vimes considered this for a minute. "Good," he added after a bit.

Lu-Tze smiled. "See you again some time, Mister Vimes."

And the world went dark for the final time.

  
  


Vimes landed naked on his doorstep. Next to him was his badge and his cigar case, and a few feet away was his dressing gown a slippers. He hurriedly put everything back on and pushed open the door. Everything was as he had left it, he realised as he ran up the stairs. He pushed open the door to his bedroom. The bed clothes were still in the screwed up state he had left them and Sybil was snoring gently, still asleep. He heaved a huge sigh of relief.

Actually, Sybil wasn't sleeping any more. His sigh had wakened her. "Sam?" she said, seeing him by the open door, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, crossing to his bed, "Nothing. I'm fine. Honestly."

But Sybil was looking at him strangely and she said at last: "You didn't have a beard when you went to bed..."

Vimes's had flew up and encountered the bristling beard on his chin. Damn. The days spent time-travelling seemed to have taken the normal physical toll on his body. There was a few days healthy growth on his chin. 

"Er," he said sitting down on the duvet next to her, "Er."

"You travelled in time again?" she asked.

"Yes," he admitted, "Not intentionally, I can assure you..." he trailed off and stopped thinking with his brain and let his body take over and do what it had wanted to do since he had run into the bedroom. Lady Sybil raised her eyebrows in shock as her husband hugged her fiercely. That wasn't like Sam Vimes.

"What has happened to you?" she said tentatively hugging him back. She squeezed his shoulder gently and he winced. She pulled back the sleeve of his dressing gown and saw the wound, healing now but still bruised and bloodied. "Goodness me Sam, that needs looking at.."

"No, it doesn't, I'm fine, really," said Sam and saw the doubtful look in her eyes. He kissed her gently. "Really. I'm fine," he repeated and kissed her again.

This far-too-rare-for-the-both-of-their-likings-husband/wife moment was unfortunately interrupted by their son, who had just woken up and decided to make his presence known. 

"I'll go," said Vimes, breaking away. Lady Sybil followed him anyway, knowing that whatever the problem was it would require her presence to solve. But when Sam Vimes picked his son up the boy stopped crying immediately, and smiled up at his father.

"Isn't that good?" said Sybil, putting a hand on her husband's shoulder. 

Vimes nodded. He had a feeling that Sam might begin to behave a bit better now for his father, although he couldn't say exactly why. Over the coming months he would be quite pleased to find out this was correct, but for the moment he was content to simply hold the boy in his arms, ignoring any pain from his shoulder and think back. There'll come a perfect moment, the Sweeper had said, and he'd been right before. Vimes knew that soon the spell would break and life would return to normal, whatever that was, but for the moment he was happy to stand as still as he could and preserve this tiny fragment of perfection.

  
  


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The End!! At last!! Thanks for staying with me, it was a long trip and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. And yes, I know the cigar case actually landed on the Bursar's head. but it could have landed somewhere else first, okay! Oh, and Sam Vimes junior's birthday is really ten months and nine days after their wedding anniversary. You can work out from Men at Arms that Vimes got married on the sixteenth of August and the twenty-fifth of may is nine months away on Earth calender, but I forgot the Disc has an extra month, Ick when I was writing. However, I like the idea of Vimes going home for his anniversary... so forget it! Hope you enjoyed it, PLEASE review! Love Lunar


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